But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. It was the bitterest moment of her life. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. "Well," she said, in reply, "I may have done Jack an injustice. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs.
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